Page 12 of Game Misconduct

Mike had gotten used to playing third pair or sitting in the press box. It wasn’t a bad thing, really. Every team needed bodies. His job was to go on the ice mostly rested and shut down the opposing team’s checking line or their stars, who had probably played more minutes and by now were flagging. His job was to use his body as a shield and a weapon. He wasn’t supposed to be on the ice for fancy footwork or strategy. He was a solid space-filler, a shot-blocker, a fighter. It didn’t matter that he’d always been the lowest man on the depth chart, that he’d never so much assniffedthe starting lineup. That was how it had always been, and he’d adapted.

Sometimes when he watched Bee on the ice he felt a pull of envy deep in his chest. They played different positions, with different responsibilities, and she was so much more talented. Watching her acceleration was like watching someone in a different universe. Her stick handling was ridiculous. He loved to watch her take another team apart, but the shittiest part of him was so fucking jealous.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love her and look up to her and all of that shit. But hockey was something he’d wanted, theonlything he’d wanted, since he could remember wanting anything. Knowing that even though he’d made it this far, it wasn’t good enough? That was fucking hard. Watching Bee just drove it all home. Even when they lost, she was just...on another level. Bee and to a lesser extent, Reed and Singer. All of them were.

There was a reason they were the first line.

“Third pair up!” Coach snapped, and Mike swung into action.

The things Mike was good at on the ice were: he had stamina, he didn’t let pain stop him from trying to get to his goal, he could check or fight guys who were a lot bigger than he was, and he had a wicked slapshot from the point. He was a solid six or seven. He did what he’d been traded to do. Wasn’t that good enough?

As he hustled his ass down the boards to battle the puck away from a Justice forward in the corner, the words echoed in his head:a guy who’s too fucking scared to live up to his potential. He didn’t need this kind of distraction. The forward managed to hold on to the puck so Mike hit him. The impact jarred his pads against the rib bruises, but he ignored it. The guy picked himself up off the ice, but by the time he did, Mike had gotten a neat pass to Parsons, who sauced it up to Netty, who skated it out of their zone.

He was fine at what he did.

Garcia was trying to get into his head.

It was just Mike’s fucking luck that it was working.

The shift ended and Mike was back on the bench.

“What wrong, Misha?” Netty asked, knuckling his glove against Mike’s helmet. “Look like you gonna murder something.”

Mike shook his head wordlessly. There wasn’t a whole lot of time to talk on the bench; even when they weren’t skating, they had to be alert for the lines changing again. It was always chaotic, always noisy, with guys going and coming over the boards as Coach called the shots.

Netty rapped his helmet again and said, “Misha.”

“Am I playing my best game?”

Netty was always smiling, always joking, that it was a little disconcerting to see the sudden shrewd gleam in his eyes. “Who ever play best game?” he asked, the jester’s grin back in place again.

“That doesn’t answer anything, dude.”

“Then that your answer.”

Before Mike could ask him what the hell he meant by that, Coach called a change, and both Netty and Mike were back on the ice. He didn’t forget about the conversation, exactly, but by that time, he sure as hell had other shit he had to worry about.

Danny knew he should have felt better about the end of the week. They hadn’t just won, they’d crushed the Monument at home, which almost made up for losing to the Cons. Danny had fought Marek, one of the fourth-line wingers. A decisive win. Marek was bigger than most, six-four and probably 225, but it hadn’t mattered in the end. Danny’s major strengths were his reach, which he’d used to his advantage even against Marek, and the fact that you could hit him one time, ten times, it didn’t usually matter. He had a rapidly darkening eye socket to show for it today, but he’d dropped the guy to the ice, so he would count it as a win.

He’d given that interview calmly. Politely. Ignored the flashes going off, because reporters always liked to take pictures of the aftermath. In most of the shots you could find of him on the league’s official website or HornsBurgh orThe Athletic, he was bruised, bloodied, sporting stitches, or punching some other hapless asshole in the face.

“Some of the guys are gonna get drinks after we get out of here,” Landry said, as they toweled off the shower. “You gonna come for once?”

Danny thought about it. He rationed his social outings with the team because too much was too much, and he was always tired. But if he didn’t go at all he’d get traded again and the press release would be some bullshit reason about how he was a problem in the locker room or something even more absurd, like he liked going to museums too much. It was early in the season, so he had more of an opportunity to make it up later.

He was going to drink either way. He was going to feel alone either way.

“Sure,” Danny said easily.

“Hell yeah, bro!” Landry said, and went in for a fist bump that Danny responded to slightly too late.

It wasn’t that his teammates were bad guys. Lévesque was kind of a prick without meaning to be, Artyomov was completely full of himself while completely meaning to be, and Landry wasreallyyoung, but the rest of them were just like any hockey team he’d ever played on. The problem, as always, was Danny. As he got older, he just didn’t enjoy the things he used to enjoy. Or enjoy things, period. Sometimes hanging out at a bar for a few hours listening to the guys shoot the shit, chirp each other, and pick up was just too much.

The group of nine ended up at a sports bar with air hockey tables—Landry and Riley Girard, the Hornets’ baby defenseman, were embroiled in a bitter tournament that had been going on since last year’s dev camp—and they still let you smoke inside. Danny didn’t do it often anymore, only when his nerves were really shot and Percs weren’t an option, but it was kind of comforting to smell it.

It was always a careful dance when he did this, though. Some guys were partiers, that was true, but Danny was always careful that people didn’t know how much he drank. He was never as bad as Zach Reed had been in his Montreal heyday—he had never ended up as a meme of the day or the main character on Twitter, and no one he hadn’t sent it to had ever seen his dick on the internet, that’s for sure—but there was a difference between being a partier and what Danny did. He didn’t usually do hard liquor when he was out, and he usually stuck with the same beer so if you weren’t watching him too carefully it looked like he was nursing it all night.

It was a lot of work sometimes. But it did the job.